


No more dying

by daxsymbiont



Category: The West Wing
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gender Issues, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Identity, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, New York City, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, the poetry of Frank O'Hara used as an obnoxious recurring motif
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daxsymbiont/pseuds/daxsymbiont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We shall have everything we want and there'll be no more dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. St. Valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to stress that, for the West Wing characters involved, this is not an AU. It's a pre-canon fic which is designed, in every way possible, to be canon-compliant. The 'Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence' tag is because I've played fast and loose with the timeline and details of Jonathan Larson's _Rent_ , which shows up as an additional source canon shortly but is barely mentioned in the first two chapters.
> 
> Regardless: as far as TWW goes: not an AU. Not an AU. Not an AU.
> 
> I say this because it's pretty easy to forget that Josh Lyman, b. 1961, was twenty-one years old in 1982, meaning that his twenties overlap precisely with the most acute years of the AIDS crisis in the United States. From what I've seen, a good chunk of TWW fic writers write Josh as bisexual; some probably write him as gay. And yet it took an offhand line in a crossover fic, [Dafna's "Alone in the Dark"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5957), for me to realize what I'd sensed missing in the vast oeuvre of "a self-destructive Josh picks up strange men in bars" fic.
> 
> OK, maybe it's not so vast an oeuvre. But. Josh is so often bisexual, so often self-loathing, so often at odds with his own sexuality and how it relates to his position in the government - and Josh was born in 1961. And yet, the backstory wasn't being written. The offhand references were barely being written. The fact that a senior staff that we, fic writers, were positioning as mostly LGBT (one letter or another) had been young adults in the 1980s was not being addressed.
> 
> So.
> 
> God help and forgive me, I'm doing it.

Josh Lyman stops having sex with men on June 25, 1982.

That's four days and three one-nighters after Sam, ever helpful, faxes him a copy of the CDC report. _A Cluster of Kaposi's Sarcoma and Pneumocystis carinii Pneumonia among Homosexual Male Residents of Los Angeles and range Counties, California_. Sam, being Sam, thinks this is a troubling factoid that Josh ought to know – Josh still goes to those bars, doesn't he? _Got this from a pre-med friend,_ says his scribbled note on the fax. _Thought you might find it interesting._

Josh, who is already aware of said factoid – he remembers reading the first _Times_ article last spring, remembers stopping with a bite of cereal halfway to his mouth – shoves the fax in the bottom drawer of his desk and strives to forget about it.

It takes Sam four days to call.

Those interim three days – his celebrated blue period, if you will – still vie for the most shameful of Josh's life. He burns through them with a rage unknown before or after. Because yeah – Josh _knew_ , before June. He keeps up with the news; he goes to New York on weekends, hears the whispers. But bring Sam into the picture – Sam with his terribly earnest concern and solicitous blue eyes – and a problem wasn't yours anymore. It was Sam's, too, to poke and prod at you about. And Josh could not, would not, submit to that without a last gasp of self-destruction. So he played a little Russian roulette.

Three days of his pulse pounding sick in his throat.

And then it's a sweltering morning in New York City in June, and Josh is slouched barely conscious over his internship desk, clutching a bottle of aspirin in one hand and nursing the mother of all hangovers. On the other side of the black hole, Sam calls.

“Did you know,” he says, “that St. Valentine was also the saint of the plague?”

Josh is stuck in an office with no air conditioning and is entirely unprepared to hear this. “What?”

“I thought it was interesting,” says Sam, unfazed. “Or, well – apropos. Did you get the fax? You haven't called.”

Josh sighs, too heavy, angles the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Yeah. I got it.”

He takes a surreptitious read of the office. He's lowest on the totem pole here, and it would not do well to be caught in a phone conversation about gay cancer. Most of his coworkers, luckily, are at lunch, and Rosalie is nowhere to be seen – probably fighting with the copy machine again.

“I thought,” says Sam, and Josh can hear him choosing his words. “I did a little research. It's happening in New York too. I thought you might want to know, if you didn't already.”

Josh swallows. His throat is so dry it stings. “Yeah. I – um, I already knew. About the thing. It's kind of hard not to, when you – yeah. But thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Oh,” says Sam, and there's silence on the line.

Which is when Josh explodes. Because for God's sake, he's sitting here in agony with an ear-splitting headache and a brain full of omens and Sam is acting like this doesn't affect him at all. What a load of crap. If Josh weren't already resigned to partial celibacy, he would swear to never get involved with a self-proclaimed straight boy again.

“Sam,” he says, “don't you have other gay friends you can talk to about this?”

There's a sharp intake of breath on the line, and Josh can tell his acrid tone hit home. “What?” says Sam. His voice is a little wobbly.

“I mean,” says Josh, and oh, this is sweet relief, he could never do romance but he can do _this_ , “am I just your go-to guy, when crap like this comes up? You don't have any other sources you can use to plumb the mysteries of the homosexual mind?” The room's still empty; his voice is low but savage.

“I – ” says Sam, and it sounds like he's about to cry. “I mean, I know you're not even a homosexual, it's just that you participate in that culture, and so I thought – ”

Oh, it is killing Josh that he's in the office right now. If he were at home he'd rip Sam's pretty euphemisms right open. _Participate in that culture – you mean I let guys fuck me?_ Josh knows for a fact that he's the only man Sam's ever been with, and sometimes the disparity gnaws at him. That Sam can maintain a veneer of innocence, can blow Josh in his dorm room and still claim distance from the back alleys and seedy clubs. It ends up looking like the only thing damning Josh is his libido, or else some flagrant error in judgment, and that makes him want to claw his own palms until they bleed.

“Look,” he says, as softly as he can. “I get that you're concerned. I'm gonna – I'll look into it on my own, I promise. But Sam, unless you're planning to make some kind of massive lifestyle change...”

Josh scrubs a hand over his forehead. He doesn't know how to say this. Half the accusations he'd like to hurl at Sam could easily be levied back at him, and they'd end up arguing for hours.

“It's not your thing,” he says lamely.

Sam laughs, like a nervous tic. “Not my thing? I believe I'm your _friend,_ Josh.”

Oh, for crying out loud. “I'm saying – either you, either you're _in_ this for good – or it's not your goddamn problem. You know what I mean?” Josh massages his temples; the ache has refused to abate. “You call me up like this has nothing to do with you, but you're on some kind of high horse about what I do with my free time. You can't have it both ways, Sam.”

Sam chews on that for a minute. When he speaks, his voice has that high, pedantic character it sometimes takes on in arguments. “So you're denying that you, yourself, have any kind of foothold in the straight world.”

“That's not what I said.”

“That's what you _implied_ , by virtue of positioning yourself in opposition to me – ”

“I'll position myself in opposition to your _cock_ if you don't – ”

There's a clatter from the next room, and Josh straightens up and whirls, dread curling in his stomach. But no: office still empty, door still open a crack. He makes a quick promise to some approximation of God to go to temple this Saturday, and breathes a sigh of relief onto the line. An unpleasant buzz lingers in his veins.

“Someone come in?” asks Sam.

“No, thank God.”

They're silent for a moment, both quelled by the temporary scare. Then Josh ventures, “At least I know who my people are.”

He hears the deliberation in Sam's pause. Sam could easily say, _Do you?_ , and Josh isn't sure he'd have a comeback ready.

“Look,” says Sam, “I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“Uh,” says Josh. “'Kay.” Dodged that bullet.

“Just – just take care of yourself, Josh, all right?” Sam sounds truly nervous. Like Josh is really about to waltz out and – oh, wait. Right. He thumps his head against the desk a little.

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Sam doesn't sound convinced. “Okay.” He hesitates. “Josh, I'm going to hang up now, okay?”

“Ahkay.”

There's the dial tone. Josh brings his feet up and curls into a ball in the swivel chair.

He knew he'd have to stop. He was planning to stop. But it was a vague futurity in his mind – after law school, he thought, if it turned out he could actually make it in Washington. Not right away. It was a matter of his reputation, not his life.

He is twenty-one years old and he's going to die.

The notion settles in his mind, congeals and takes root. He's marooned in this little chair, while around him rises a tide of newspaper articles, a sea of CDC reports. They are clamoring; they want to claim him as one of their own.

He'll be a number. He'll turn up dead in a back room. (Most of these men doubtless died in hospitals; that doesn't stop him from seeing his own face slack and pale on the floor of a bathroom, the tile set with cockroaches and dried spunk. He'll die with his pants down and everyone will know exactly why.)

So he stops.

There are exceptions, sure – times in the intervening period that Don't Count, for whatever reason. There are times on the phone when Sam, after a pregnant pause, will blurt out in a puff of air “You wanna – ” and Josh will say “God, yes.” There are a couple of particularly lewd BBS chat logs. There are other nights he doesn't, per se, remember.

But for the most part, barring extraordinary feats of amnesia, it's been _seven goddamn years_ and he honestly doesn't know what he's doing here. Back in the valley of temptation. The belly of the beast. He is standing at the corner of 11th and B, waiting for some guy named Mark to throw him a key.

It's got something to do with Toby Ziegler and Ed Koch.

 


	2. A Deli in Distress

**1985**

The first thing Toby ever said to Josh was, “You know any lawyers?”

Josh woke up, that Saturday, to kicked-off sheets and the street outside laid with fresh-fallen snow. It was early yet – the room quiet and white, the traffic outside blaring. He'd come down to New York on Thursday – cut Friday's class – to unwind from a difficult paper, and had planned to return to Yale the night before. It wasn't entirely clear to him why he was still here.

He was in Aunt Sarah's apartment. She had died a couple of years ago. The family, after much squabbling, had decided it was worth it to retain a cheap rent-controlled one-bedroom in Hell's Kitchen for the foreseeable future. Josh squinted at himself mournfully in the mirror, went through the requisite cycle of guilt at being allowed to crash here rent-free, and then wandered to the kitchen in search of breakfast.

The fridge contained a jar of kosher dill pickles and a tiny brown medicine bottle. The phone, inexplicably, was ringing.

Josh scrubbed both hands over his face, through his hair, rubbed at his eyes until they stung. His head didn't hurt; the taste in his mouth wasn't too offensive. These were things to focus on.

He performed the most basic, weary of morning ablutions and preparations, threw on his coat and shoes, and hurried out.

The February light of sun on snow was blinding. He hadn't buttoned his coat. Kids were throwing snowballs at each other in the street, hitting cars instead, and the detritus from one grazed his shoulder. It was cold and loud and raucous and smelled like smoke. An old woman pushing a laundry cart – possibly one of Aunt Sarah's old neighbors? – gave Josh a murderous glare.

His fingers were freezing. He hadn't brought gloves.

Josh turned into a deli a couple blocks down and there was this man inside, the only other customer, arguing with a guy behind the counter.

The man behind the counter was old, knob-nosed, probably of Eastern European extraction; he was gray-haired and stooping and seemed to have absolutely no time for this. “Hey,” he called, crooking a finger when Josh came in and the bell on the door rang. “What can I get for ya.”

“Uh,” said Josh, shaking off the snow and stamping his feet. “Bacon egg and cheese and a cup of coffee? Thanks.”

The rush of warmth and the deli smells were welcome. Josh hung back, hands in his pockets, as the deli guy nodded and set to work behind the glass sandwich case. The other man, clearly disgruntled, shot Josh a look over his shoulder and then returned to his spiel.

“Max, I'm telling you, it's against the law,” he said. “Under the SCD rules established in 1974 – they have _specific protections_ against cases like this, Max, are you listening to me?”

His voice was emphatic, sharp; drenched in a thick Brooklyn accent. The guy put his knuckles on the deli counter and rapped. Max, sighing, put Josh's coffee down and caught his eye.

“You a lawyer, Toby?” he said. “Cause if not, I think I'm gonna take the money and go.”

“I'm saying, they can't kick you out and they can't kick Eli and Javier out either! There were laws created specifically for this neighborhood, explicitly for this kind of scenario – it says 'harassing the tenant', right in the language! I'd say turning off the heat falls pretty squarely under that jurisdiction!” His voice kept rising, arms and hands gesturing wildly in concert.

Max slid the coffee across the counter to Josh. Josh took it silently.

The other guy – Toby – rounded on Josh with sudden conviction. “You know any lawyers?”

Josh, clutching the coffee to his chest, was taken aback. “What?”

“I said, do you know any lawyers. I've decided we need one.”

Behind them, Max snorted.

“Shut up,” said Toby, and fixed his pensive, unblinking gaze on Josh.

Josh was struck, instantly, by how he seemed already like a much older man. He was probably thirty-five at most, yet there was something weary about him: in the hard dark eyes, the heavy brow, the slumped posture. His hands were animated and wouldn't stop moving, but his face was still. He was smallish, but already with a hint of a paunch, and his hands and eyes seemed too big for his slender frame. He looked badly put-together, a disjointed doll in a giant black overcoat and fur hat, with only the sloping nose and pointed beard to redeem him. He also looked profoundly uncomfortable in his body, as though his skin had been put on inside out.

“Uh,” said Josh. He took a sip of the coffee, which was bitingly hot and had that distinct taste one could only find in a deli. “I actually, um. I'm in law school? I'm a 2L. So I, uh, probably could – ”

“Perfect,” said Toby, and – to Josh's complete bewilderment – grabbed his arm and attempted to lead him out of the deli. “Come with me,” said Toby, and looked at him expectantly as though Josh should find no problem with this.

“Uh,” said Josh again. “Wait, my food? And I have to pay him.” He gestured toward Max, who was waiting behind the counter chuckling.

“Oh,” said Toby. “Yeah.” He released Josh and stood to the side, temporarily cowed.

“Good luck,” said Max to Josh as he counted out change. He seemed merely amused by Toby's every move.

“Thanks,” said Josh warily, and slipped the foil-wrapped sandwich in his pocket.

“I'll be back, you know,” Toby called to Max as they exited the deli.

Max just laughed and said something back in – God, was that Yiddish? Josh was reflexively embarrassed for the both of them.

Toby flipped the bird at Max and, grim-faced, shepherded Josh out into the cold. Then he turned to face Josh – still under the awning – held out a hand, and said, “Toby Ziegler.”

Josh, fumbling with the coffee, shook. “Josh Lyman,” he said.

They turned onto the sidewalk and began walking, down Ninth Avenue toward 51st. “I'm with the Bellamy campaign,” said Toby. “Carol Bellamy, she's running for Mayor against Koch. And I'm with the GMHC.”

“Uh,” said Josh. “Sorry, the what?” He knew the what. He didn't quite know why he was asking the what.

“Gay Men's Health Crisis,” said Toby, without breaking his stride.

Josh felt a sudden flash of anger, that he could just toss that off. How dare he, really. Must not be gay. “Ah,” he said, and changed the subject. “Hey – why was there no one in that deli? It's a Saturday morning, seemed weird.”

Toby frowned, coattails flapping in the wind. “S'what I was talking about with Max,” he said. “A couple of landlords around here are trying to force out current tenants – mostly the elderly, the disabled, people with AIDS, people they consider easy targets – so they can restructure the buildings and make luxury apartments. A lot of the time they turn off the heat.” His voice got quiet. “If people are sick they just die, you know. But Max, he's old and tough, so they tried to pay him to get out and he wouldn't, so they've just hiked up the utilities on his deli space and he can't afford to keep it open most of the time. He's lost business.” Toby shrugged. “That's how they get ya. 'Harassing the tenants' is a kind way of putting it, really.”

Josh, who had taken his sandwich out and was trying to surreptitiously eat it while juggling it with the coffee and bracing himself against the wind, found himself at a loss for words. “Um,” he said. “That's – you really do need some lawyers.”

He felt Toby turn to look at him, felt the weight of his gaze, and then turn away. “Yeah,” said Toby. “Anyway, I don't have much time to talk right now, I just thought I'd – can I give you my phone number? I'm on my way to temple.”

“Uh, sure,” said Josh. And then, coasting on a wave of several impulsive decisions: “Wait! I'll go with you.”

Toby's eyebrows drew together. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure, I'm Jewish and I haven't been since – ” Josh thought back and, well. It had probably been Yom Kippur last year, but Toby didn't need to know that. Besides which, he needed to do penitence; he was pretty sure he'd sucked a dick last night, even if it didn't belong on the Official Roster of dicks sucked, and one had to atone for these things in whatever twisted way one could muster.

Toby was still looking at him skeptically. “ _What?_ ” said Josh, and then watched as Toby's eyes flicked from Josh to his sandwich; to his face, and back to his sandwich again. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” said Josh, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was early, it was cold, he'd had a rough night, and he was offering to go to temple with a man he barely knew – a man he wasn't even sleeping with. “You're not the goddamn treyf police, let me have my bacon.”

To his surprise, Toby laughed. It was a short, dry bark of laughter that seemed to have been startled up from deep inside him. “Fair enough,” said Toby softly, and there was a crinkling around his eyes that hadn't been there before. His shoulder knocked against Josh's, and Josh had to steady the coffee as it threatened to spill over his wrist.

“Uh,” said Josh. “So – so after temple, you wanna – you wanna tell me how I can help?”

He'd make up for this too, he was sure. Somehow.

 


End file.
